


The Harvest

by Aesir



Series: five years [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Cousin Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Translation Available, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesir/pseuds/Aesir
Summary: “Do you know how many complaints about public nudity I have received this morning?” T’Challa asks, voice as dry as a desert.





	The Harvest

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [有得有失](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14570790) by [annebaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annebaby/pseuds/annebaby)



It feels hot enough to boil the sweat clean off his skin, but Erik doesn’t move off the lounge chair; he keeps his face tilted up towards the blazing sun, eyes closed, arms splayed out loose and relaxed by his sides. Sometimes there’s a slight, cool breeze, just enough to ruffle the broad green leaves of the tall trees circling the balcony and raise goosebumps whenever it passes, but otherwise he’s abandoned to the mercies of the baking midday sun. Still, it’s good—he feels a little damp all over and prickling with the heat, but he’s calm inside, like he’s got no worries today. It’s good. 

The balcony’s quiet, like even all the birds out think it’s not worth the effort to raise all their voices in this sweltering heat. Then Erik hears the little _shick_ of the privacy field activating and closing up around the balcony, hiding him from view. Erik smiles to himself. 

T’Challa’s shadow falls over him. “Do you know how many complaints about public nudity I have received this morning?” T’Challa asks, voice as dry as a desert. 

“I’m working on my tan,” Erik says, just as dry.

T’Challa’s clothes rustle. He’s probably looking to the heavens to send a prayer up to Bast for patience or something. “If you were going to lie around all morning like this, you should have at least activated the privacy shield. The Dora would have appreciated it.”

“They’ve seen worse.” Erik cracks an eye open and steals a glance at T’Challa, who’s looking over his bare body like he’s not _un_ appreciative. T’Challa catches him peeping, but instead of getting embarrassed at being caught out, he smiles, cute and a little tired; Erik opens both eyes and grins back up at him, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. 

T’Challa shakes his head at him, amused, and reaches out to stroke Erik’s damp cheek. “They also said you have not eaten or drunk anything since the morning, so I have brought food to your room,” T’Challa says. “And water, if you’d like some.” Sure enough, there’s a tall sweating bottle of water in T’Challa’s hand, chips of rapidly melting ice clinking against the glass. 

It’s clean and sweet like only water he’s had in Wakanda has ever tasted. He tips the bottle high, draining it empty in one go, gulping for breath and still thirsty when he’s done. There’s water dripping from his chin, pooling like a cold kiss in the hollow of his neck. T’Challa’s staring at him unabashedly with hooded eyes. 

Erik drops the bottle carelessly on the floor by his lounge chair, trusting that it won’t break. “Quit fussing now and get down here, man.” 

“It is nice up here as well.”

“Okay,” Erik says, slow. He nudges his thighs open a little. “So you wanna make it better or what?” 

T’Challa folds. He seats himself on the edge of lounge chair, languid like he wants to save face and take his time with it; Erik rolls his eyes and grabs at his waist, hauling him into the vee of his spread legs. T’Challa snorts a laugh, settling in gamely. T’Challa’s neck tastes like sweat-salt and skin, a little cool from being inside the palace with the air conditioning on all day. He smells so good Erik wants to stick his face into T’Challa’s collar and breathe in deep, so he does. 

“Man, what you been doing all morning. You stay inside?” Erik mumbles into his neck, kissing up it to land one on his chin, rubbing their cheeks together. He loves the prickle of T’Challa’s stubble on his skin. “You smell nice. I'm probably rank.” 

“You’re not,” T’Challa says, a little laugh roughing up his voice. He tilts his head down and braces his forearms up by Erik’s head and kisses him once, sweet; Erik licks his lips and strains up for another. He drinks sweet chaste kisses from T’Challa’s soft mouth, tasting salt, until it’s not enough, and then he bites at T’Challa’s lip. T’Challa draws back and stares down at him with his electric hot eyes.

“All right,” T’Challa says, and bends down to kiss him again, opening Erik’s mouth with his; he cups Erik’s face, sucks in Erik’s full bottom lip and scrapes his teeth over it, dipping his tongue in. Erik shivers, sliding greedy hands up T’Challa’s _still clothed_ back and over the nape of his damp neck insistently. 

“C’mon,” Erik mumbles against T’Challa’s mouth, tugging at the back of T’Challa’s collar. “You ain’t hot with all this shit on? Take it off.”

T’Challa doesn’t budge an inch. “Come inside. It's too hot to do this out here,” T’Challa says.

“Tell me you’ve messed around in public," Erik says, teasing. "At least once, c'mon now."

“We're hardly public," T'Challa says, amused. "The shield is up.”

“That’s a minor detail,” Erik says, massaging lazily over the nape of T’Challa’s neck. The way T’Challa leans into it, eyes going half mast, gets him doing it with a little more intent, his other hand sweeping in one long broad stroke down T’Challa’s clothed side. He wants skin touching, their bodies sticky with sweat and hot all over. He wants to feel T’Challa’s naked body grinding on him, out in the open balcony, both of them burning up under the heat. It’s probably disgusting, but he wants it.

“You’ve been indulged too often,” T’Challa says, but he’s nosing at Erik’s neck now, so no points there for honesty. 

Erik tips his head back to give him easy access. “Indulge me a little more. C’mon,” he says, lower, “I wanna make you feel good.” 

T’Challa’s soft as hell, so instead of complaining more, T’Challa just kisses him and then pushes Erik’s hands off and sits up on his knees. Erik shifts restlessly, watching T’Challa make quick work of his shirt with heavy lidded eyes. The rest of his clothes pile off piece by piece in a heap on the floor. Erik fumbles for the control button by the side of the chair that lets the armrests and the backrest smooth and flatten underneath him as T’Challa settles back over him, blocking out the sun.

It feels so good to get T'Challa on top of him. He loves it—loves the ache in his thighs as they spread wide around T’Challa, making room for him, loves the heat of T’Challa settling back into the space Erik leaves for him, his whole solid weight holding him down. Erik pulls him down with a hand around the back of his neck and crushes their mouths together, reaching between them for T’Challa’s cock; T’Challa bats his hands away, takes hold of Erik’s ass and hitches him up and in, grinding their hips together, the hot line of his bare dick like a heavy brand against Erik's belly. 

“What do you want?” T’Challa murmurs; he’s rubbing a thumb over the scars on Erik’s hip over and over, rubbing sweat away. The naked hunger in his eyes makes Erik feel hotter than the sun ever could, temperature rising in his face.

“What do I want _first_?” Erik says. T’Challa gives him a quelling look. “You’ve brought oil out here with you, haven’t you, you spoiled brat,” T’Challa says, and Erik laughs. He fumbles underneath the chair and brings out the little dark bottle of oil. 

“This gonna be enough for you, _kumkani_?” he asks, batting his eyelashes at T’Challa while he glares down at Erik despairingly. 

“Brat,” T’Challa says again, taking the bottle and setting it aside on the low table beside them, then bending down to buss his mouth against Erik’s. Erik laughs into his mouth, getting his arms around him. T’Challa kisses his way down Erik’s chest and gets his mouth around Erik’s left nipple, tugging gently with his teeth, a bright pinpoint of pain that goes straight to his dick; Erik gasps, arching into it. “So if you wanna do something ‘bout that oil now,” Erik says, strained, trying not to just give in and rub his hard dick all over T’Challa’s belly like a goddamn animal.

T’Challa’s running his hands over Erik’s thighs, touching the soft unscarred skin. It tickles; it makes Erik feel vulnerable. It makes Erik want to close his legs up. “As you can imagine, I have had a very, very long morning,” T’Challa says, “so I will take my time with you, and you will be patient.” 

“Okay,” Erik mumbles, distracted. “Just, c’mon. I’ve been waiting for you too.”

“Waiting for me like this, to notice you like this,” T’Challa says, eyes dark and hot, and then he bends further over Erik and licks at the precome welling at Erik’s slit, sucking the head into his mouth.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Erik gasps, hips rising off the chair. T’Challa’s tongue is soft like velvet, licking over whatever he can as he sucks more of Erik’s cock into his searing hot mouth; Erik shudders hard all over and curls his hand over the back of T’Challa’s head, chewing at his lip. He watches as T’Challa’s cheeks hollow out, T’Challa’s eyes fluttering closed in pleasure as the tip of his dick hits back of T’Challa’s throat. He doesn’t fuck around with teasing: he swallows, and the sudden constriction around him makes Erik yelp, thighs jerking up around T’Challa’s sides. T’Challa draws off and Erik’s dick falls wetly from T’Challa’s mouth, curved up and thick and hard all the way against his belly. Erik trembles as T’Challa pushes his legs up and muscles them up over his shoulders, hands around Erik’s upper thighs forcing him wide open, exposing him. It’s feels hotter now—Erik’s face feels hot with it, flaming. 

His head keeps wanting to roll back on his neck, so it’s a struggle to keep it up enough to watch as T’Challa ducks over Erik’s cock to leave hot open-mouthed kisses all the way up the underside, beard scraping up his sensitive inner thighs. He’s got one hand shoved between his own legs, moaning around Erik, getting off on it too, God—”uh, _ah_ , fuck,” Erik moans, trying to shove his hips up, T’Challa’s arms holding him down not giving him an inch. His eyes keep drifting closed in pleasure without his permission. He’s fighting hard to keep them open, but fuck if he’s missing out on the view. He’s never seen anyone look as pretty with a cock in his mouth as T’Challa in his entire life. 

T’Challa draws off to swallow Erik back down to the base, mouth scorching, bobbing back up to lick at the precome leaking from the tip, does it again, setting a rhythm, glancing up at Erik from time to time through his lashes to make sure Erik’s really got his eyes on him. “Oh, God,” Erik chokes, completely stupid with it, “oh fuck, baby, you feel—” as T’Challa rubs his tongue under the sensitive head. T’Challa’s unyieldingly solid over him, panther strength in his arms pinning him down against the chair like bands of steel, and Erik can’t move his hips to thrust into that heat even a little, can only grip at the edge of the chair above his head and whine and sweat and shake to pieces under the sun; it’s quiet all around the balcony except for their moaning, just about loud enough to sound over the pounding of his heartbeat rushing in his own ears. His whole body feels tight, straining, like the air around him is pressing in, and Erik feels like he might die after just a few breathless minutes of T’Challa’s mouth on him. 

It’s too soon, but he feels his balls draw up tight and his dick jerk in T’Challa’s mouth and his stomach tighten up underneath T’Challa’s hands. He’s been waiting for T’Challa to come to him all morning, been on edge thinking about this, but—“Hey,” Erik gasps, “hol’ up, hol’ up, I don’t wanna come yet,” but T’Challa ignores him and keeps fucking his mouth on Erik’s dick, mouth lush and wrecked and wet with spit and precome, tight suction and heat, and he _can’t_ look at him without needing to—“fuck, _wait_ —” but T’Challa hums around him and swipes his tongue over the head of him again and again until Erik’s blanking, mind going melting hot and liquid. At the barest hint of teeth, that’s it—Erik’s crying out, shocked, scrabbling at T’Challa’s shoulders, bowing off the chair as he comes, hips jerking as T’Challa swallows and starts jacking him off, fist calloused and slick and perfect around him. 

Erik digs his heels into T’Challa’s back but T’Challa still doesn’t let up, suckling at him through the aftershocks until Erik thinks he might _actually_ die; Erik makes a wild hurt sound, hips fucking involuntarily into T’Challa’s mouth and then away again, too much.

T’Challa eases Erik back down on the chair and pushes Erik’s legs off his shoulders, climbing back up over him even as Erik’s still shaking, dick twitching through the last of the aftershocks and dripping drops of come all over his abdomen, cool on his overheated skin. “Fuck, baby,” Erik swears, chest heaving. T’Challa cuts him off with a hungry kiss. Erik cups T’Challa’s face, licking into his mouth, chasing the taste of himself. 

T’Challa’s hard cock is pressing insistently against Erik’s belly. Erik’s mouth waters, even if his dick gives a last exhausted twitch in T’Challa’s hand; he still wants it.

Eventually his heartbeat resumes its normal pace and isn’t in danger of punching a hole right out of his goddamn chest. Erik pulls away from T’Challa’s mouth reluctantly. It’s gratifying to watch T’Challa automatically lean in, wanting to chase. “You want your turn?” Erik sounds wrung out even to himself, which he admits is kind of weak. He hopes T’Challa doesn’t notice. 

Evidently, T’Challa does: he smiles down at Erik and smacks Erik’s thigh. “You are so spoiled,” T’Challa says fondly. Erik notes with some irritation that he’s only a little breathless. “Now that you have gotten what you wanted, are you willing to move this inside?” 

“Damn, you’re petty for someone who’s just had my dick in his mouth,” Erik says. He struggles up onto his elbows. “Just bring the bottle in with you.”

Staggering back inside his bedroom from the balcony goes about as well as Erik expects, meaning his fucking knees don’t want to work properly, meaning T’Challa’s silent laughter follows him all the way into the air conditioned room. It’s an unpleasant shock of cold to his sun-baked skin, and Erik shivers with the prickle of goosebumps rising all over his skin. T’Challa notices. He nuzzles into Erik’s neck and turns him around to kiss him, and they keep making out until they miraculously manage to reach the bed blind without crashing into anything. They topple over it in an undignified heap over the cool dark sheets, knocking the breath clean out of Erik. 

Erik winces. “Ow,” Erik says, muffled into his blankets. “Why’re you so heavy?”

There’s an outraged pause above him. “I bring you food and water,” T’Challa says. “I field numerous complaints about you lying around your balcony naked all morning while I am hard at work in my office, and then I let you fuck my mouth, and still you complain and complain—”

“You _let_ me fuck—” Erik twists his torso, glaring up at T’Challa’s smirking face. “You barely let me up, I couldn’t even move!” 

“‘Minor detail,’” T’Challa parrots, “you should look at the big picture,” and oh, he is _asking_ for it. Erik tumbles them over and swings a leg over T’Challa, settling over T’Challa’s lap. 

“Damn near sucked my brains right outta my dick, how you gonna tell me you let me do shit,” Erik mutters, leaning down to shut T’Challa up with a kiss before he can say something smart. T’Challa gets a good grip around Erik’s locs and slings an arm around Erik’s waist, pulling him closer with both. “The oil,” T’Challa says against Erik’s mouth after a little while, with the faintest hint of urgency in his voice, and oh, yeah—Erik glances down at T’Challa’s dick, half-hard between their stomachs. 

“Mm, I’m sorry, I almost forgot about you,” Erik says, getting a hand around T’Challa’s dick, stroking until it hardens up a little more. 

T’Challa stifles a moan against Erik’s shoulder. “It’s—you know it is very strange when you speak to it,” he says. 

“Woah. You hear that? Did somebody say something?” Erik says. T’Challa groans, but it sounds less like pleasure and more like exasperation. “Nah, I thought so. It’s just you and me, little man.”

“Please stop,” T’Challa sighs, circling Erik’s wrists. 

“There it goes again,” Erik says. “I swear I’m losing my mind.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you want this ass, duh,” Erik says, and rocks his hips down to hear T’Challa finally shut up and gasp, flustered. “Let go of me and pass the oil.” 

T’Challa picks the bottle up off the bedspread, but like the contrary little asshole he is, he doesn’t pass it over. Instead he slicks his fingers and presses two of them to Erik’s hole, rubbing, spreading the oil around. Erik doesn’t complain; it gets him hot when T’Challa teases him like this, makes him feel—soft, or something. The angle isn’t too good for it, but T’Challa still manages to fit one inside him slow, then two, working him open with languid in-and-out strokes that make Erik shake, mouth dropping open. “Oh,” Erik mumbles, pressing his forehead to T’Challa’s shoulder hard. He kisses T’Challa’s neck, rolling his hips back when T’Challa’s fingers glance over his prostate. 

T’Challa’s breath’s coming a little heavier now, watching his face. “You take it so well,” T’Challa murmurs.

“Thanks,” Erik says dryly, and laughs when T’Challa slaps his thigh.

The rest of the oil pools into the cup of Erik’s hand, viscous and still sun-warmed. Erik slicks T’Challa up with it, biting his lip at the thick heavy weight of his cock filling his hand, getting hard all the way again; he watches T’Challa’s face as he reaches down to help Erik guide T’Challa’s dick to his opening. The little furrow of concentration between his brows is cute, but T’Challa’s cock pressing in in one smooth measured thrust sure as hell isn’t. Erik abruptly loses all of his breath as he sinks down on it, toes curling hard, skin breaking out all over with a fresh wave of sweat.

“Fu- _uck,_ ” Erik gasps, aching, hurting with the pleasurable stretch, T’Challa’s cock filling him in the best way. He grabs at T’Challa’s shoulders, squeezing mindlessly. It _aches_ , even as relaxed as he is after T’Challa made him come the first time; it hurts. It feels amazing. “Fuck, oh, _fuck.”_

T’Challa’s mouth is hanging open around silent pants, big hands gripping at the dip of Erik’s back where he’s arched hard against him. He’s trying not to move too much, to let Erik get adjusted, but his hips occasionally jerk with unconscious minute thrusts that punch out these tiny hurt noises Erik can’t help. T’Challa’s looking at him like he’s shocked, overwhelmed, and also kind of—“You,” Erik pants, grinning, “you always get this dumbass look on your face when you slide in.”

T’Challa’s eyes widen. _“My_ face,” T’Challa says, outraged, and Erik falls back laughing as T’Challa tips them over and shoves Erik flat on his back; Erik’s laugh abruptly cuts off with a loud _ah_ as T’Challa slides home again with a well-angled thrust that sends liquid heat shivering up Erik’s spine and pooling between his legs, thighs tensing around T’Challa’s waist. “You should see _your_ face,” T’Challa says smugly, bending over him to kiss him like he thinks it’s a real slick way to punctuate or something. 

“Yeah whatever,” Erik manages. “We both look dumb as fuck, can we fuck now?” 

“Wow,” T’Challa says, but he does as Erik tells; his next thrusts has Erik sliding up the sheets, groping wildly over his head for the headboard to cling onto. Erik’s cock is starting to leak messily between their stomachs, hard all the way again like he hadn’t just had an orgasm ripped out of him ten minutes ago, but the heat of T’Challa’s solid body and the full weight of him on top of him pinning him down and the incredible earthy smell of him, his hands tight and grasping at Erik’s waist, bitten mouth open in pleasure, the stretch of his thick cock dragging along all of Erik’s nerves deep inside, all of it has a predictable effect on Erik; he opens up for T’Challa to take everything he has. T’Challa sets a maddening pace, forceful, slow, wringing embarrassing sounds out of Erik’s throat. “Ah," he slurs, "ah, _ah_ , oh fuck, you’re so—” 

“You feel so hot,” T’Challa says, rough, low, “N’Jadaka, you're so beautiful,” getting deeper on every thrust. Erik makes a hot helpless sound at that, and to cover it up, he reaches between them and scrapes blunt nails through the tight curls low on T’Challa’s belly, fingertips glancing off the base of T’Challa’s dick; T’Challa snarls and grabs at Erik’s wrists, hips stuttering. “C’mon,” Erik begs, not really knowing what he’s pleading for, but wanting it, “c'mon, please,” and T’Challa drags his wrists above his head, pinning them to the mattress in a bruising grip, redoubling the pace. The slick obscene sound of their hard fucking fills the room, and Erik squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting back, panting, panting with it. 

“Wait, hold on, let me up,” Erik says, and as soon as T’Challa’s grip loosens around his wrists Erik has them flipped over again, climbing on top. He lifts T’Challa’s cock and sinks down onto it in one trembling thrust that rips a shout from T’Challa. Erik braces his hands against T’Challa’s chest and shoulder to keep himself from toppling right the fuck over, shuddering hard; he’s got him so much deeper in now, gliding right up against his prostate. 

Erik starts to move on him. Fuck, he really can’t get enough of it: his body’s used to being pushed to its limits, but the pleasurable burn in his thighs as he fucks himself up and down T’Challa’s cock is exhausting, and he’s so pliant and dizzy from coming earlier that it’s hard to stay balanced even with T’Challa gripping at his hips, desperate, shoving Erik down on his cock like getting himself off is all he can focus on. There’s sweat dripping down T’Challa’s face, room heating up around them with the entranceway to the balcony left open. His flushed mouth’s open, moaning, eyes closed, body tight with muscle, dark skin gleaming all over. T’Challa looks so good Erik’s got to fumble a grip around the base of his own cock, whole body vibrating with it, staving off his orgasm—“C’mon, baby, I want it,” Erik gasps, clenching up around him, “want you to come in me, get me wet—”

“ _Bast,_ fuck,” T’Challa swears, teeth gritted, thrusting up wildly; Erik grinds down on him, whining as T’Challa starts to come. T’Challa’s clenching his hands on Erik’s waist so tight it hurts, and then he lets go of Erik’s left hip to push Erik’s hand out of the way and jerk him off; Erik sobs as he comes too, jerking his hips back against T’Challa’s cock and into T’Challa’s tight fist, weak pulses of come spilling over T’Challa’s fingers. He rubs the heel of his right hand mindlessly against T’Challa’s nipple, feels T’Challa’s hips stutter in response.

Eventually they unstick enough to collapse in big sweaty tangle of limbs. Erik sprawls out on his back beside T’Challa, gloriously sticky and uncaring of the wet spot. “What the fuck,” Erik mumbles, blinking dazedly up at the ceiling, mildly appalled. It’s _spinning._

T’Challa’s laughing, but it’s weak. “This is all your fault,” T’Challa says. Then with a valiant effort he rolls onto his side and kisses Erik’s shoulder, hand sliding lower on Erik’s belly. The muscles jump under his touch. “Are you hurt? How are you feeling?” 

“Same as you,” Erik says. T’Challa snorts, an unkingly, undignified sound. 

“Show me,” T’Challa commands. Erik spreads his legs and sucks in a sharp breath when he feels T’Challa rub two fingers gently over his swollen hole. They press against him, waiting for permission. When Erik doesn’t kick him off like he _should_ , they dip in to the knuckle, moving softly.

Erik exhales a shuddering breath. “You're just some big, insatiable cat—” Erik cuts off with a loud groan as T'Challa spreads his fingers in him, scooting lower on the bed and rolling in between Erik’s legs, dipping his head to lick in between them. Erik twists away as T'Challa scrapes his teeth gently over his sore rim, then subsides shivering as T'Challa pulls off with one last sucking kiss, kissing his way back up Erik's torso, withdrawing his fingers slowly. When T'Challa gets to Erik's chest, Erik flails out a hand and hauls him up by the back of his neck before T'Challa can get any more bright ideas. 

“You're gonna be the death of me, man,” Erik complains, rolling them over so he’s sprawled out on top. “Just stop. _Stop_ ,” he repeats, when T’Challa’s clean hand starts sweeping slow broad strokes over the whole expanse of his back. 

“Mmph,” T’Challa says. “Get off of me. You’re crushing me.”

“Stop tryna give me a heart attack then,” Erik says, but he shifts most of his weight off of T’Challa and crowds in on T’Challa’s side, cheek against T’Challa’s smooth unscarred chest. T’Challa pulls him closer with an arm around his shoulders. “You said you brought food in here, right?” Erik says, slurring a little, eyelids drooping. “I didn’t see it when we came in.”

“I am not feeding you,” T’Challa mumbles, sounding unbelievably long-suffering for a guy who’s just enjoyed the incredible gift of his cock in Erik’s ass. “In fact, I think you should feed me. I did most of the work.”

“If that’s what you want.” Erik is feeling pretty all-around charitable at the moment. He feels exhausted, sated, and the air conditioning feels nice on his skin now. He could lie here forever.

“Maybe after we shower.” Erik feels a hand under his chin, so he lifts his face; T’Challa kisses him once, soft, sweet. “It’s only fruit. I was going to call for a proper lunch.”

“Fruit’s good. Something fast. You gotta get back to work after this, right?” 

“I have nothing that cannot wait,” T’Challa says. He’s looking over Erik’s face; whatever he finds there must make him happy, because he smiles down at him, gentle-eyed. Erik lowers his gaze, faintly uncomfortable. “You look well rested. No dreams?” 

“Nah, I slept good,” Erik says. “Could use a nap now though.” 

“Sleep,” T’Challa says, yawning hugely. “Then we’ll eat. I will need your help preparing a mission briefing after.”

There's a breeze coming into the bedroom from the balcony, stirring cool air over his skin for a moment, and then it’s gone. T’Challa’s breathing deep, chest rising and falling slowly under Erik’s cheek; Erik closes his eyes, aching, completely sated. “I hope you activated the sound blocks outside too,” Erik mumbles, teetering on the brink of sleep, and then he wakes all the way the hell back up when T’Challa goes absolutely rigid like a board underneath him; Erik has to roll off of T’Challa to bury his face in his hands, laughing and laughing.

 


End file.
